


Reckoning

by Victorian_Chik



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21763984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Victorian_Chik/pseuds/Victorian_Chik
Summary: When Gil finds Malcolm wandering the streets at night, he decides to help his young protegy adjust his priorities.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 71





	1. Wandering

**Author's Note:**

> After reading ARTofOTK and rosesofred's stories, I decided to drive my hand.

_2:14am_

I was heading home after closing down the paperwork of a drug raid in East Harlem. It wasn’t my usual beat of homicide investigation, but I like working in narcotics occasionally as the confessions tend to come quicker. You get to say things like “Hmm, this looks like criminal possession of a controlled substance in the first degree – that is an A-one felony, punishable by up to 25 years, maybe life.” The new kids, weeks into their new job of drug hustling, start tattling on each other, and it becomes a matter of getting paperwork for plea bargains filled out.

All way below my paygrade, but I like to help out sometimes. My home is so empty since I lost Jackie. I can’t sit there alone, and right now I can’t stand the idea of dating again, the shallowness of a new relationship compared to the intimacy of knowing and loving a woman to the core of her being.

So work was my life now.

Even in a city that never sleeps, the road and sidewalks clear out in the middle of the night, and driving becomes a routine activity, a passive movement from gas to brake pedal without much attention.

That was why, even though I saw him immediately in my peripheral, it took me a moment to realize that I saw Malcolm Bright walking on the sidewalk of E 33rd Street. Cops are trained to notice everything, and I slowed the car, observing him from about ten feet behind.

He was wearing a coat (thank goodness, the outside temp read 45˚on my car’s dashboard) and shoes, and he walked at a steady stroll, neither fast nor dawdling. A fine pace for a Sunday afternoon in Central Park, but not down a dark New York street in the middle of the night.

My next thought was he might be sleepwalking. Usually in those night terrors, he moved erratically and defensively, but . . .

He came to the end of the sidewalk, glanced both ways at the crossing street, and passed on the crosswalk when the walk sign lit up. He was fully awake.

I have always been called a calm, cool guy. My go-to in anger tends to be stern disapproval with crossed arms and direct gazes at the target of my displeasure. Hardened cops turn into shamefaced kids when you approach them that way, no yelling, just stern looks and short directives. Twenty years ago I was almost killed, so I can’t go through life erupting into rages. I’ve worked under bosses who threw fits and hurled binders and pens at walls, cursing and spitting, and they always got heart-attacks early. You show up a few minutes late on a Tuesday, ducking down in hopes you won’t get reamed out for your tardiness, and your partner pulls you aside, whispering, “Did you hear? Jacobs had a massive pulmonary last night. He’s in ICU, but it’s touch and go. We’re signing a card to send.” 

I often feel angry at Malcolm, frustrated by his choices and carelessness, but I don’t allow myself to do more than the stern disapproval act.

Until that moment.

I flipped the siren for a short whoop and felt a moment’s bit of satisfaction when he jumped.

He looked around, those huge blue eyes scanning for danger, and when he saw me in the cop car, he came over.

I parked the car on the sidewalk and swung out.

“Hey,” he slowed, scanning for clues, “what’s going on? Are you okay? Do you have another case?”

“What are you doing out here? It’s two in the morning, and you are wandering the streets of one of the most dangerous cities in America. The murder rate is up 3% this year!”

“But it’s trending lower this decade than it has since the 50’s,” he countered, doing that nervous thing where he gives contradicting information with a half-embarrassed laugh. I’m sure he meant to be endearing, but it only irritated me further.

“Tell me at least you have your cellphone.”

Reflexively, his hands went to his pockets, but when they came up empty, he turned those blue eyes on me with more half-embarrassed laughter. “Well, I uh . . . seemed to have misplaced it. Calling, Malcolm Bright, calling –” he trailed off at my expression.

I didn’t speak; I caught him by the bicep and pulled him to the car. While he isn’t very tall, Malcolm is strong from daily fitness routines, but he went along with my movements, even ducking down to get in the passenger seat and pulling on the seatbelt.

I got in the driver’s side, buckled, pulled the car forward, and kept an even speed as I started my questions.

“When I saw you this morning, I asked if you slept because you seemed slow and clumsy. You said you did, you were just unnerved following the case. Did you sleep?”

“I did some.”

“More than three hours?”

Silence with the only movement being that he picked at a thread on the seatbelt.

“Are you taking medication that would interfere with your cognitive abilities?”

“No, I take the prescribed amounts.”

“But how serious are these drugs? If I switched places with you and you drove this car, would I be safe in the passenger seat?”

A sulky pout and deliberate yanking at the thread with two fingers.

“If I performed a standard police psych eval, would you pass or would I be notifying a hospital for you to be committed?”

“Those things don’t allow for represented memories from serial killer fathers!”

“All right. Here’s an easy one. If I called your mother right now and reported that you were wandering the streets without a cellphone, what would she say?”

He tugged hard enough and the string snapped off. “That’s not fair. Mother doesn’t understand me either. She thinks because it’s her loft, and her money, and her family name, and because she’s my mother she gets to be in charge of me. She’s so bossy and controlling and she won’t stop talking.”

“You won’t stop talking,” I returned.

“Yes, but I have important things to say! I know I’m smarter than her, but she keeps making retorts and I can’t always think of something to say in reply and if I did it would hurt her feelings and I don’t want that.”

I refused to be distracted by the repressed-child bait that he so obviously wanted me to follow. If he couldn’t convince you, Malcolm liked to make you feel sorry for him. All big teary eyes and trembling lips. I wasn’t buying his flippancy, his arrogance, or his self-pity tonight. “Would your mother approve of you wandering the streets like this?”

He stiffened in the seat, torn between pouting and throwing a tantrum. “I’m a grown man. If I want to walk outside, I can. See, look –” he pointed to a group of guys leaving a bar –“they can stay out as long as they like. No one’s calling their mothers.”

“Is that a fair comparison? Should I stop and ask them if they have a serial killer for a parent? Should I ask if they are on heavy medication for anxiety and PTSD? If they have tremors and night terrors so bad they have to be restrained at night?”

I slowed the car and angled it slightly toward the men, bluffing that I was actually going to stop. They looked about Malcolm’s age, probably worked in finance, and were finishing up conversations before sharing taxis home. Suits and loosened ties, cellphones in hands, friendly banter – one was laughing at whatever his friend was saying. The epitome of normal that Malcolm couldn’t stand to encounter in ordinary conversations where their averageness make him twice as awkward and nervous.

“No, Gil, don’t!” he ducked his head, hiding his face behind his hands.

“So am I right or are you right?”

“You’re right,” behind splayed fingers.

“I’m taking you home, and I’m going to wear you out until you’re ready to go to bed and finally sleep.”

“Ugh, that sounds rapey.”

“It’s not.”

“Then it sounds like you’re going to beat me up.”

“No.”

I let a second of silence fall as I turned onto another street, now blocks from Malcolm’s loft.

“I’m going to spank you.”


	2. Chapter 2

Silence met my words.

Then Malcolm glanced at me, gave a nervous laugh, and said, “You – you’re joking right?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“But I’m an adult.”

“In body perhaps.”

He looked ahead, and I could almost feel his mind working through the situation.

“Spanking involves hitting someone, usually on their rear,” he gave a barely perceptible nod, the same motion of head going back and forth that he did when working through cases. “Mostly it’s a punishment for children even though there has been massive research on possible psychological effects. Other countries have outlawed it, but America remains split on the implementation of corporal punishment.”

I didn’t say anything as I drove the car towards his loft.

“That’s children though,” the nodding increased. “For adults, it’s assault to hit another person. The only way it works between adults is for both parties to consent. I researched it for the Berkhead case. I read a quote about sex once compared to boxing – ‘If both parties consent, it’s sport. If not, it’s assault.’ That works for spanking activities, too. So I would have to consent to this.”

He looked at me, that same eager way he does when working through a case and wanting approval for a line of logic. I’ve been careful to keep my responses to small bits of affirmation, giving out praise like I might give a small child candy – once or twice a week. The other members of my team have self-confidence, sure in their movements and actions; I could say good job after everything Dani does, and she would respond with a half-smile of recognition before moving on to her next task, but Malcolm needs approval like an addict. Smile at him too often, congratulate him too much, stand and marvel at his brilliance, and he becomes unmanageable in his careless disregard of rules and his own safety.

Now that I thought about it, I had been a little too relaxed at the office today, letting Malcolm do what he liked as we were between cases. I might have even used the words “You want the files from the Surgeon’s first kills? Okay, have at them.” I should have snapped, “You tell me why you want them, and then I’ll decide if you get to read a single sheet at my desk where I can watch you.”

But no good deed goes unpunished, and all lenience with Malcolm will always be regretted.

“You’re going to consent to this,” I told him. “It will hurt some, but after, you’ll feel better and you’ll sleep better.”

“Really? I’ve heard that people who engage in this type of behavior do feel better after. It releases endorphins, they say, and helps with guilt. But I don’t feel guilty . . .”

He trailed off, and I tried not to roll my eyes at his lies. He felt guilty about everything these days, his life one long self-punishment for the sins of his father.

“Did your parents ever spank you?” I was casual as I turned the car onto the street two blocks from his loft.

“My mother did,” he rubbed his fingers over the seatbelt where the string had been. “I remember being small, before they caught the Surgeon, and I broke her china vase thing after she told me not to play with it. I think she swatted me a few times. I ran out in the street once, ignoring her, and when we got home, she put me over her knee and spanked me with her hairbrush. It must have worked – I haven’t broken vases or run into streets without looking both ways since.”

I hated to ask, “Did your father ever use corporal punishment?”

“No, he was too busy killing women to correct childish behavior.”

The sarcasm was back, and I knew if I looked at him, his smile would be back, his faithful defense mechanism to avoid honesty.

“All right, fair enough. But,” I pulled the car to a stop in front of his loft and killed the engine, “you’re agreeing to this? You trust me to take care of you?”

The smile slipped, but he still exuded the feel of a caged, wary animal looking for an escape. Vulnerability was his kryptonite.

“I trust you, Gil,” but Malcolm didn’t meet my eyes, and when I saw his gaze trailing out to the sidewalk, I knew he was considering an escape.

“Tell me,” I pulled the keys out of the ignition, “what you learned about adult corporal punishment during the Berkhead case. Is it always a part of BDSM lifestyles?”

“Not always,” he unbuckled his seatbelt and got out. “Sometimes BDSM is about flaunting the regular rules of social behavior by doing the opposite.” He fished in his pocket and unlocked the door with his keys. “So sometimes the top or the dom will use degrading language towards the bottom or sub as part of arousal. If you call someone a dirty slut in real life, it’s meant to tear them down, but when done in a BDSM scene, it helps the sub get into subspace.”

He turned on the lights, took off his coat, and tossed the keys on the kitchen counter.

“Sounds like a complicated system,” I commented.

“Sort of. I thought about venturing into it, but it’s another set of rules where you have to remember to act properly, and the serial killer father thing would put off people who wanted to use pain as pleasure. There are professional dominatrix, but paying for it seems a little too close to paying for sex, and my mother would chain me permanently to the bed if she caught me paying for anything sexual. She put parental locks on our computers during high school and college which made it hard to study abnormal human psychology.”

“I never thought of your mother as particularly prudish.”

“Oh, she’s not. She thinks it’s tacky to pay for something that someone would give you for free.”

Malcolm glanced around. “So where do you want me? Over the counter? Touching my toes?”

“You can go over my lap,” I grabbed him by the collar and strode towards the bed. I was overplaying the stern father a little as he would have gone where I told him, but he looked too nonchalant and I was still irritated with him.

I sat on the bed. “Bend over my lap and put your torso on the bed. That way you won’t be too heavy.”

He stared at the bed as if he couldn’t quite comprehend what I was staying and then, flustered, looked down at his pants.

“Pants off, shorts on,” I instructed.

He nodded, and I saw his hands trembled as he unbuckled the belt, unbuttoned and unzipped the dark pants, and shoved them down to his knees. For underwear, he had on fitted black shorts, the expensive kind that cost more than my suit.

He might be tenting slightly in those shorts, but the look on his face was fear and worry, and any bodily response I was writing off as the tension of the situation. He made a movement to reach down and cover himself, but stopped; his eyes grew big and almost misty with apprehension.

“Stop being so dramatic,” I tugged him down, angling his face to my left so my right hand could swat. I got him to rest his torso on the bed with a pillow under his chest. His legs bent with his shoes touching the floor, positioning his rear at the perfect angle for bringing down sharp smacks.

“What if you hurt your hand?” he tried to look back but couldn’t quite make eye contact.

“I’ll be fine.”

I brought my hand down with a slap.

The sound broke through the loft, sharp and ugly.

Malcolm tensed, every muscle rigid.

“Ow!” he exploded. “Ow, that hurt. Let me up.”

He made a motion to push up, and I swatted him again, twice.

“Settle down or I’m getting a belt.”

“No, ow,” he whined. “Ow, Gil. It hurts.”

“Of course it hurts. What did you think a spanking was?”

“But people said it made them feel better afterward.”

“Yes, _afterward_. Not during.”

Malcolm gave a small stamp on the floor. “They should have clarified that in the studies!”

I didn’t answer. I swatted, keeping my hand cupped to maximize the sound.

He nearly howled. “This is awful! I can’t stand it.”

“I’ve seen you take worse beatings than this on cases. A few slaps on the ass is worse than getting punched or choked or stabbed?”

“That’s done in the moment of action,” he panted. “Here I have to keep still for you to –”

I spanked him hard to finish his sentence.

“Wait, wait,” he put his right hand back, his left trapped under the pillow. “Tell me when you are going to hit so I can brace for it.”

“Kid,” I made my voice gentle though I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of our situation, “I’m not trying to torture you. I’m spanking you for two reasons. First, so you never wander around New York in the middle of the night again. Second, because you need to let out all your guilt and fear and anger. Take my hand,” I used my free hand to catch up his right and rest it in the small of his back, careful not to strain his shoulder. “You can cry, scream, wiggle, and stomp all you like. But you’re going to hold onto my hand until it’s over. Then, I promise you will sleep peacefully.”

“You promise?”

“I promise, and you know you can trust me.”

I heard him take a deep breath and then felt him squeeze my hand.

I began to swat in earnest, a pattern of four strikes: right, left, high middle, low middle. I completed three circuits on his rear and then moved down to slap high on his left thigh.

He had been whining softly, but now he jerked with another howl.

“Ow! Why’d you have to go there?”

I responded with a smack on his right thigh.

“No, go back up!”

I obliged, spanking his bottom twice with more strength than I had used before.

He lowered his head with a deep whine. He wiggled some, as if he were trying to shake off the soreness.

It was time to start the lecture. “I am tired of this nonchalant, devil-may-careful attitude of yours. You are so smart and brilliantly gifted, but you leap into danger because you think you don’t matter. It’s like you think you live on another plane of existence than the rest of us, a place where you are so special that nothing matters but cases and your own brain. Your father acts like that too.”

I felt him go rigid again, but I kept swatting. “Your father acts out of selfishness, and you act with this martyred, willing-to-sacrifice attitude where you are the atonement for his sins. I don’t like it, Malcolm.”

I so rarely use his first name that I knew I had his attention. His breathing was short and wet, but he had stopped whining to listen.

“I don’t like this masochistic streak, and if I have to spank you to help you return to reality, so be it. Other people on my team listen to me – do you see Dani disobeying orders whenever she wants?

He shook his head hard, probably scared to talk and burst into tears.

I swatted him three times – my hand was starting to hurt – and I kept lecturing, “You want it both ways, the freedom of adulthood to do what you want and the dependency of childhood to disobey and float along in your own world without serious consequences. I’m not having it, and I’m not letting you play Russian roulette with your safety any longer. Am I getting through to you?”

“Yes,” barely mustered.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Am I your lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Am I your friend?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Am I the closest thing you have for a decent father?”

“Yes, sir, owwwwww!”

“And am I going to have any more foolishness from you?”

“No, please!”

“Then what do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “I’m sorry for not listening and disobeying you and causing problems.”

“You focus on those thoughts,” I pulled my arm up a few inches – ugh, my poor hand was going to hurt after this – and I walloped him hard.

Jerking, he gave a pitiful, “Aaahh!” before breaking into real tears.

I hardened myself against his agony – and my own as my hand was throbbing – and walloped him three more times just as hard.

He kept crying, wet and gasping, but he didn’t move.

“Okay, we’re done. You’re going to sit beside me and calm down.”

He was a sweaty, shaky, crying mess and it took some navigating to get him up, pants righted, and oriented enough to sit down which brought another round of huge tears as he put weight on his bottom.

He looked so miserable that I didn’t even think as I slipped an arm around him and pulled him against me, ignoring the stiffness of my hand.

Malcolm wrapped both arms around my waist and buried his face in my right shoulder as he kept crying. I could feel his torso tremble with his sobs, but the tremor from his hands was gone.

“Shh,” I told him though I didn’t care how long he cried. It was a relief to have him this way; I haven’t realized it, but his taunt emotions had spilled over to the rest of us and I was finally able to release just like he was. Granted, I wasn’t crying, but I felt a comforting peace, a present calmness to the chaos of our lives.

“That hurt,” he sniffled.

“I know,” I forced myself to stroke his hair with my sore hand. “You took it really well.”

A few more sniffles, and then, “Are you going to tell the others about this?”

“No, this is just between us.”

“Good, I don’t want JT to know.”

“Not Dani?”

Hesitation and a long sniff before, “I don’t know how I feel about her.”

There was a depth of information there, but it was too late to go into that, and he would retreat into lies and evasion, and I saw no reason to give him a second spanking for dishonesty.

“Do you feel better?” I asked, my voice calm and matter-of-fact.

He squirmed but admitted, “Yes, but I’m still sore. I mostly feel wrung out, but I don’t care so much. It’s weird.”

He turned his head to rest against my shoulder and let out a long breath. I ignored the stiffness of my fingers to rub the back of his neck, willing to just let him stay quiet for a few minutes. The only sound in the room was the soft twitter of his parakeet.

Malcolm yawned, and when I looked down, I saw his eyes were fluttering shut.

“Into bed,” I pulled him up.

“No, don’t leave.”

“I’m not leaving, but you need to be in bed, restrained and mouth-guarded, before you fall asleep.”

“You promised I wouldn’t have a night terror,” he pouted, but he got up, let me pull back the covers, and settled down on the bed with a wince. He barely noticed as I slid the cuffs on, and his eyes closed before I could reach for the mouth guard.

“Open up,” I told him, and he opened his mouth without opening his eyes.

I thought about wandering away, but I stopped and allowed myself a moment of sentimentality for the boy who had save my life all those years ago. I pressed my hand down on his forehead and murmured, “Sleep well, my son.”

He tried to smile around the mouth guard, but sleep had pulled him deep down into peaceful darkness.

I turned the lights off around his bed and went down into the living room area of the loft to sleep on the sofa. It was after 3, but I hoped to catch a few hours of rest before dawn came.


	3. Chapter 3

I felt like I had barely stretched out on the sofa and closed my eyes when the awful parakeet chirped. I raised my head to shush it (I have no idea about bird gender or how you would even check for that) when I saw morning light streaming in the windows

I reached for my phone on the coffee table. 9:15.

Malcolm was still asleep on the other side of loft so I got up to feed the bird. I winced as I pulled on my shoes and stood. The years were catching up on me, making me all creaky in the morning. I remember partying in college: downing countless cups of beer, sleeping on a beach in wet clothes, and waking up to go surfing and eat all the fast food I wanted. This side of – um . . . we’ll say forty-five, a whole night’s sleep in a Tempur-Pedic bed with water, vitamins, and melatonin taken before only made me feel okay. The energy from my college years was long gone.

The bird tweeted softly as I fed it, and I leaned across the wall, willing myself to wake up.

Malcolm’s loft was bathed in the soft light of morning, making it only slightly less ridiculous.

There was a long story behind him moving in, something about his mother wanting him to live at home and he wouldn’t so she gave him this place but she owned it and he felt guilty and more details but I hadn’t paid attention.

The first time I had visited, Malcolm had shown me around, proudly announcing that he had decorated it himself.

The loft was really too much: in a remodeled warehouse with old books and throwing axes and antiques and dark colors and a bed with restraints. I had been so tempted to turn to him and quip, “Come on, really? This place looks like the beginning of a horror movie.”

But I had kept my face neutral and nodded along with the tour, commenting, “Ah, nice sofa. And good use of space so it doesn’t feel too voluminous.”

At some point, most young adults have a need to show off their new homes, to see approval on their choices of living arrangements on their own. Malcolm was living in a building owned by his mother so I felt compelled to listen as he went around the loft, pointing out his unique taste in decorating. I had meant to be supportive, but I ventured too far into flattery, and it ended with Malcolm standing on the sofa with an axe in each hand, shouting,

“I’ve perfected my throwing. I can hit a target fifty feet while blindfolded. Go stand by the bed and hold up a book and I’ll throw with my eyes shut!”

With an inner sigh, I had snapped my fingers at him, ordered him to get off the sofa, put up the axes, and stop putting people’s lives in danger.

Why his mother or his sister or even I allowed him to collect and throw axes was still beyond me. Jessica was technical his landlady; couldn’t she insist that the loft have no weapons on display?

Malcolm stirred on the bed, the chains clinking together.

“Horror movie,” I nodded as an aside to the bird and then moved towards the kitchen.

Unlike my own kitchen, Malcolm’s had nice gadgets, all new and shiny with fancy brand names. I had never used a French press before to make coffee, but I got a kettle full of water and turned the gas stove on to boil it.

Malcolm wandered down, rubbing his eyes. He stared at me – blue eyes not in focus – and asked, “What time is it?”

“About 9:30.”

“Did you feed Sunshine?”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing?”

“Starting breakfast.”

“M-kay,” he pulled out a barstool and sat down. He winced, blinked in surprise, and looked up at me.

I returned his gaze with the same quiet authority I used on the job.

“I hoped that was a dream,” he muttered.

“Did you _have_ bad dreams?”

I could almost see the fight on his face: wanting to tell the truth but not wanting to admit I was right. Sometimes I saw no difference between the man he was now and the child he had been all those years ago.

“I don’t remember.”

“Do you usually remember?”

He shifted, winced again, and hunched over, enjoying his misery and discomfort a little too much.

“I was going to make us some coffee,” I picked up the French press. “Do I pour the grounds into it or does the water go in first?”

“The grounds go in first. Then pour the water. You let it sit and then push the handle down to get all the grounds to the bottom.”

“I think the only time I’ve seen one of these used was in _Sinister_. Ethan Hawke drinks coffee from one of these, and his daughter poisons it at the end because of the demon thing. It was okay for” – I avoided looking around the loft – “a horror movie.”

Malcolm didn’t say anything so I asked,

“Did you see it?”

“I find horror movies anticlimactic after living one.”

The whole exchange was awkward and forced, Malcolm clearly wanting to sulk and me just wanting to go away.

“Do you want a bagel?” I moved to the fridge where a paper bag of bagels sat on the second shelf.

“I’m not hungry.”

I pushed the door shut, bracing myself for a talk with him, but the front door swung open and Jessica walked.

The wind was blowing, tossing her auburn hair around her face, and she struggled to shut the door.

Malcolm turned to me, all kinds of anxiety and worry on his face, and I should have reassured him with a nod or look or something, but like every time I saw Jessica, I needed several whole seconds to take her in.

Throughout my marriage to Jackie, I was so close and comfortable with her that I forgot what she looked like, a beauty of being that settled the core of my existence. In the same way you forget what the people you love look like, Jackie had been more than just her physical self as her kindness and goodness and patience overrode all her physical attributes. Jackie had been my soulmate and my best friend.

But Jessica Whitley was a goddess. Every time I saw her, it hurt to look at her, dazzled by so much beauty. Jackie had been a great connoisseur of classic literature, and every time I saw Jessica, I imagined that my awe matched those in great stories who had witnessed spectacular beauty. Helen of Troy must have had the same effect on her contemporaries, a Venus in the presence of mere mortals.

“Oh, Gil? So kind to see you,” Jessica came into the kitchen area. “Malcolm, you have a guest. Do we stay in a tee-shirt and shorts when we have company?”

I pressed my lips together to hit from smiling at her need for manners. I suppose that, after having a serial killer for a husband who had transgressed the social contract in the worst way, keeping strict manners helped Jessica make sense of the world.

“I just woke up,” Malcolm protested.

“Oh, well, I’m glad you got sleep but . . .” she trailed off. I saw her reach to brush back his hair and then stop herself.

For a mother and a son, the awkwardness between them was extreme with Jessica doing her best not to criticize and Malcolm wanting her to go away.

The whistle on the kettle blew, and I took it off the range as I said,

“I stopped by for coffee and bagels on my day off. Will you join us?”

Malcolm looked up at me, aghast and betrayed.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Jessica replied. “You need to talk work and job things with Malcolm.”

Jessica had a way of making homicide police work sound like we had a homemade lemonade stand to run. I don’t think she meant to sound condescending – I believe it was her defense mechanism to avoid facing the brutal circumstances in which we worked – but I could see Malcolm was three seconds away from throwing a tantrum and shouting that we did real work.

“Today is my day off and we have no cases,” I filled up the French press. “We would love you to join for breakfast and tell us about your latest charity work.”

“Well . . .” she pretended to waver, “if we have enough bagels. Let me just go freshen up.”

She went to the bathroom, and as soon as the door closed, Malcolm let a groan.

“Aw, come on, Gil.”

“We have enough bagels,” I took them out of the fridge and shook the bag at him.

“It’s not that. She’s . . . you saw her! She barged in here.”

“Doesn’t she own the place?”

“I have tenant rights! You can’t go into tenants’ places whenever you like.”

“Normally, no. But considering your condition and the night terrors and the medication, I think she’s wise to check in on you.”

“She nags me all the time. Nothing I do is good enough for her.”

“Yeah,” I nodded with exaggerated obviousness, “she’s a mother.”

Malcolm had a death grip on the edge of the counter. “She keeps telling me not to embarrass her.”

“Then stop embarrassing her.”

I reached for a knife to cut the bagels in half but paused with a grimace. My spanking hand was still sore, and I gingerly bend and straightened my fingers.

“Are you hurt from last night?” Malcolm rushed to a drawer and came back with both hands full of prescription bottles. “I have pain stuff.”

This boy was going to be the death of me. “Are you kidding! You can’t show a cop all this stuff. You’re not allowed to have that many opiates in one place.”

“Oh,” Malcolm looked down at his hands. “It was all prescribed.”

“You have enough drugs in your hands for me to send you to rehab. Put the stuff back, go get dressed, and be polite to your mother for breakfast.”

“All right,” he went back to the drawer. “But I’m sore too.”

“Then we suffer together.”

That seemed like a bargain to him because he went to get dressed without any more complaining.

Jessica came out of the bathroom, hanging her coat and purse on the back of one barstool. She looked even better – her hair not as windblown and her lips slightly redder – and she sat down with poise and posture as if it were time to have tea with royalty.

“Is your hand hurt?” she asked when I picked up the knife clumsily.

“Carpal tunnel from typing,” I answered.

“Let me,” she took the knife and started sawing through the bagels. “It’s so nice for you to visit Malcolm. He doesn’t get many visitors. I keep hoping he might meet a nice girl or boy or anyone at this point and start a relationship. Or a friendship. Even a pen-pal at this point. He tends to alienate others.”

“He works well with JT and Dani,” I said. “And Dani’s a girl.”

“Yes?” she perked up.

“But –” I held up a cautioning hand – “the children have to make their own decisions about dating. You push them and they have to be contrary and rebel against parents.”

“Very true,” she nodded. “May I have some coffee? No bagel for me. I have fit in my Vera Wang dress for next week’s lunch. I finally got invited to the Women in the Arts Luncheon, and they put me in the very back, but I get to get up and present a check for illiteracy or dyslexia or . . . I don’t know. I give the check at the end when everyone’s several drinks in and won’t be angry I was invited.”

I put a toasted bagel on the plate in front of her. “You’re eating a bagel. You’ll need something to balance out the strong coffee. And everyone will be angry at how pretty you look, nothing else. You’re always the prettiest woman in the room.”

She raised those full, gorgeous eyes up to me, and for a moment, we stared at each. I felt myself sinking into the green-blueness of her soul, an Aphrodite of timeless beauty.

“Do we have cream cheese?” Malcolm slid into the seat beside his mother and started grabbing bagels and coffee.

The moment broke and we both grabbed for the plate of bagels and French press before Malcolm could knock them over.

“I’m starving,” he confessed as he tore into the food.

“That’s good,” his mother said. “And you finally got some sleep.”

“Yeah. And Gil slept over.”

“I slept on the sofa,” I said before she could look at me confused.

“What?” Jessica smacked Malcolm’s arm lightly.

“I couldn’t sleep on the sofa – I need the restraints,” he said around a mouthful of bagel.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full. I told you that you needed a guest room. You need to have another bed when non-romantic people spend the night.”

“ _You_ would spend the night,” he muttered while taking another bite of bagel.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“The sofa was fine,” I intercut. “I’m still trying to figure out why you want to go to a luncheon where people don’t like you. Take your money elsewhere.”

“I can’t. Two decades and I still have to donate privately. No one wants the wife of a serial killer to dampen the mood.”

I knew our own mood would damp if the silence lingered so I changed the subject. “This is going to sound crass to your Park-Avenue sensibilities, but I always admired how you kept your fortune in the recession. I watched my 401K wither like a dying plant and it’s still trying to recover.”

“I was a finance minor in school,” Jessica took small sips of the coffee. “I thought I would give Wall Street a try but then I got married and had Malcolm. I’m out of the loop now, but I had the sense in 2009 to diversify our portfolios in a way we could weather out the market.”

“You think you would be a broker if you didn’t have children?”

“No, I wanted to be an actress.”

Malcolm snorted an unexpected laugh in his coffee.

“I know it’s silly,” Jessica handed him a napkin, “but I did drama in high school and I loved being on the stage. I could have turned the whole my-husband-is-a-monster into real popularity on Broadway. Imagine the headlines, ‘Wife of Serial Killer the Surgeon Stars as Lady Macbeth.’ Or ‘Jessica Whitley, Survivor, Is Now Duchess of Malfi.’ One can dream.”

Malcolm opened his mouth, but I rushed ahead, “I’m sorry you didn’t get to go on the stage.”

“I had two children. You can’t be a good mother and a media sensation at the same time. Still, it's fun to think about what could have been. What would you have been?”

I had taken a long sip of coffee but I answered immediately, “Astronaut.”

She let out a peal of laughter – the loveliest sound I had ever heard – and clasped her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. That was so – something a ten-year-old would say.”

“Unfair. You get to be an actress, and I can’t be an astronaut?” I tried to scowl, but my mouth insisted on twitching into a grin.

“Space is scary,” she was smiling too. “You can’t breathe up there and those claustrophobic suits!”

“Fine. I’ll be a pirate.”

“In space? Like Han Solo?”

“Well, it’s either space pirate or space cowboy. Malcolm, which do you think is cooler?”

Malcolm turned wide blue eyes on both of us. “I don’t understand this conversation.”

“Kids today,” I shook my head. “They don’t get our dreams. We can be anything we want when we grow up.”

“Exactly,” Jessica raised her coffee cup, and I clinked it against hers emphatically.

“No, really,” lines of concern drew across Malcolm’s forehead, “I don’t understand what’s going on. Why is space scary?”

“It’s not. It’s the new frontier,” I deadpanned.

Jessica laughed again, her face relaxed in a way I rarely got to see. “Oh, you’re so funny, Gil. But, all right, we’ll finish breakfast and then Malcolm can tell us about what happened last night.”

Malcolm and I both froze, afraid to look at each other.

“Malcolm couldn’t come to dinner because he was testing out a new theory about sound waves over the Hudson in the dark. Isn’t that right? You had a theory that once the city was dark and there was less activity on the streets you could hear sound travel from the middle of the river. I told him not to stay out too late. You were home before midnight, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Malcolm answered, a little too quickly. “Yes, I was here. Gil was here, too.”

“We were here,” I said. “I didn’t get to hear the sound waves theory so he can have at it.”

“I got it on my phone!” Malcolm jumped up, knocking the plate of bagel across the counter. I reached out and caught the skidding plate before it could fall, suavely pushing it back to safety.

“Nice catch,” Jessica smiled.

“Space cowboy,” I returned.

Up by his bed, Malcolm managed to trip two times in looking for his phone. Jessica and I pretended not to notice.


End file.
